What We Are

Chapter 6: Friendship

A week of school usually didn't feel like an eternity, but as the news of Claude's fate after graduation became the top gossip for the entire student body, the future Head Vampire of Gratia Clan felt that Friday couldn't have gotten here fast enough.

To be fair, at least nobody came up to talk about his plans once he became Head Vampire directly.

Claude had figured out during another one of his (increasing number of) late nights that what actually bothered him was how everybody seemed to regard him in a whole new light.

Being the only heir of Alma and Zachariah Fernsby—often dubbed as vampire royalties—Claude's presence always warranted second looks. Some tried to get close to him in the past just to see if he had the same spirit and effortless charm his parents were known for. Those people often found themselves disappointed after discovering that Claude went to school solely for the sake of getting his degree, not to start spreading his influence at an early age or some other crap tabloids made up.

Claudius Fletcher Fernsby considered himself a bit boring, and he wasn't mad about that.

Years went by, and everyone in I.I.U. collectively decided to leave him to his own devices.

That had been the norm, until this week happened.

Lottie, being the absolute angel she was, had taken it upon herself to make sure Claude got through their shared classes without so much as a cold sweat. She'd been worried about him since his panic attack last Monday, and whenever Claude felt the familiar welling of his emotions, she took him to a quieter place and hugged him, talking him through it.

Surprising Lottie with three boxes of her favorite strawberry-flavored, gourmet chocolates only seemed fair, paired with one-too-many thank you's. Now that he thought about it, Lottie was probably half the reason why no one approached Claude to chat about his inevitable position, not even the sons or daughters of families who were part of Gratia Clan.

Lottie Goldenhart—with her enchanting eyes, sweet smiles, and warm nature—surprisingly had a mean glare that could probably scare away a grown man.

On Fridays, he and Lottie only had two classes, their school day ending at two. One look at Claude and Lottie knew that Claude had no intention of going anywhere but directly to his house.

"I can't figure it out."

"What can't you figure out?" They were packing up their things, waiting for the rest of the students to head out before them. Their Business Communications professor, Ms. Janet, didn't even spare Lottie and Claude a glance when they happened to be the only students left behind.

"Whether you'll spend the rest of today baking or binge-watching that rich people show you keep making references to."

Claude zipped up his laptop bag, waiting for Lottie to finish stuffing her tablet and notebook into her sizeable purse. "I'll have you know that What You Missed from the Miar's is extremely addictive."

"I can imagine. Oh no, will the mother choose to buy another lizard skin purse or red-bottom heels? That's some great content right there."

"I didn't say it was good content, I just said it was addictive." Claude waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Besides, binge-watching is not part of today's plan."

"I've got training until six. Coach is literally whooping our asses trying to get us in shape before regionals," Lottie told Claude as they left their classroom a few moments after Ms. Janet did. They needed to take the stairs down from the third floor and then cross buildings just to get to the campus main entrance.

Claude raised an eyebrow at Lottie. The girl's body was undeniably a volleyball player's through and through. They wore school uniforms because I.I.U. deemed it necessary, and the mandatory white button down brought attention to Lottie's defined shoulders, the pleated skirt revealing toned legs and muscled calves beneath skin tone stockings. "Why would your coach think that your team's not in shape? Do you have new players?"

"Only one, her name's Emari. She's already pretty good. Coach likes to see us suffer through drills, probably because he can't actually get through half of them himself."

"That's terrible."

"So is watching What You Missed from the Miar's."

Claude harrumphed. "I take offense in that."

As they came upon the covered walkway connecting their current building to the main one, Lottie nudged Claude's elbow to catch his attention again. "Hey, do you have anything planned for tomorrow?"

Tomorrow was Saturday, August 31. Nothing important was happening tomorrow, except...

"I don't have anywhere to be," Claude said. "Why? Will you ask me to train with you?"

Lottie smiled sheepishly, her brown eyes shaping into crescents. "I planned to invite Natasha, but she's got a date with her boyfriend. I know you've got great reflexes—which have little to do with your super speed ability or any other vampire-y powers. This is also an excuse for you to drop by again. My mom misses having you around too."

Claude pretended to think about it. "Hmm. Would it be possible that I came over and your mom just happened to be baking apple pie?"

Lottie didn't hold back on the eye roll. "Well, Claude, coincidences happen all the time."

They bid goodbye to each other before they reached the main entrance. The walk to the university's sports complex was nearly double the distance they just covered. It was already a workout for Lottie just getting there. "Tomorrow, lunch time. I'll see you?"

"As long as there's apple pie."

-----

In the middle of placing his week's worth of dirty clothes into the laundry machine, Claude's ringtone began to play, making the music in his wireless headsets stop.

"Is calling each other going to be a regular occurrence then?" Claude asked Dean through the microphone included in his bluetooth headsets.

"You started it," Dean replied maturely.

Claude pocketed his phone again to shove the remaining contents of his laundry basket inside. He closed the door to the spinner, selecting the water level and pressing start. At the sound of water being released inside the machine, Claude stood to his full height. "Yes, I can see now that it was a mistake." He exaggerated the despair in his voice.

He didn't expect Dean to address their texting-only-sort-of-rule which began because of their equal desire to attract zero attention to their friendship. Dean did that sometimes, avoided the elephant in the room. "Calling means we get to talk to each other while also doing other things."

Now standing in his kitchen, about to tackle the mess that was his kitchen counter, Claude made a face. "That sounded wrong."

"I meant like you doing laundry and me driving."

"You should focus on driving." Though Dean did have a point. If they were texting, Claude would have to stop what he was doing multiple times just to continue their conversation. Instead, he was returning spices into his spice cabinet without pause.

"I think we should celebrate." Dean wasn't asking.

"I thought you knew that your birthday was still tomorrow?"

"Everyone's throwing a surprise party for me tomorrow. I guess it's not really a surprise since I know about it. Point is, I won't be able to see you. So, we celebrate a day early!"

Claude closed his spice cabinet gently before moving on to the dirty dishes scattered on various surfaces. He hadn't gotten the chance to clean the kitchen last night since classes wore him out. "We've been doing that for four years now. If it's not a day early, it's a day or two after."

"There was your twenty-first birthday," Dean brought up. "We celebrated that a week early."

"Ugh. Don't remind me about that one." The plates and bowls were stacked on one side of the sink. Claude grabbed the detachable faucet head. "I can't even remember how you persuaded me into having my first ever alcoholic drink with you. Canned beers. Honestly, Dean." Claude could practically taste the memory.

That was the first and last time he blacked out from drinking.

Dean laughed loudly. "You drank five of those canned beers, Claudius Fletcher, and got so drunk you were belting out song lyrics with a mop as your microphone stand."

Claude grabbed the closest bowl, rinsing it off while actively ignoring the cringe his past drunken behavior induced. "Those drinks gave me the most horrendous hang-over I've ever had in my entire life. Not even shot-gunning straight liquor has come close."

"You want to see if we can recreate that?"

"What—" Claude got it a beat later. "You said you were driving. Don't tell me you're on your way here as we speak."

"Why aren't you all excited like I hoped?" Dean all but whined.

"You can hear me doing the dishes, right?"

"Washing plates is more important to you than your very best friend?" The Head Alpha of the Axel Pack was guilt-tripping him.

"I'm not just washing plates, I was going to clean the entire apartment." Claude wasn't even halfway done with his list of chores. "Where are you now?"

"Two minutes away."

Claude turned his faucet off. "Are you kidding me?"

"Almost there, Claude! Open your door!" Then Dean ended the call. Claude stared at his wet hands for approximately five seconds before grabbing the kitchen towel. So much for his to-do list.

-----

"Good evening," Dean said, much like a professional. "Would you care for some canned beer and cupcakes?"

Claude pursed his lips, staring at the items in Dean's arms. They were all sweets and junk food, the handle of a box dangling from the fingers of his right hand.

"Do beers and cupcakes usually go together?"

"I don't know," The Head Alpha answered honestly. "It kind of sounds like a gimmick?"

Claude took the box of beers as Dean passed him. The unfamiliar brand name had Claude narrowing his eyes. "This has forty-percent alcohol."

Knowing Dean, the werewolf had specifically bought these for that reason. "Those taste better than the ones we had before."

"I didn't even know they sold beers with alcohol content this high."

Dean picked up the clear plastic packaging of the cupcakes, storing them inside Claude's refrigerator. "They do. Some even go higher."

"Are you trying to get wasted? You're driving home."

"It takes a lot for me to get wasted." Dean's head turned this way and that, taking a good look around the mess in Claude's kitchen—which objectively wasn't that bad, but Claude was used to having a spotless place.

Claude took this time to look at Dean.

Comfortable clothes were the Head Alpha's go-to, jeans with t-shirt combos and the like. Tonight, Dean wore a flannel shirt with the three top buttons undone. It displayed a patch of bronze skin.

Claude wondered if he's ever seen Dean wear a flannel shirt before.

Surely he has not. If he already had, Claude wouldn't be staring this much at the exposed part of Dean's chest like it was some sort of forbidden fruit.

"I'm not entirely sure about this, but don't most college students go out during Friday night?" Dean's words had Claude blinking rapidly, back to the reality that Dean might've just caught him staring.

Dean only raised an eyebrow.

Claude opened the box of canned beers still on top of his island counter. "Most college students live with roommates who help them keep the place tidy throughout the week."

Dean's presence managed to simultaneously calm down and light up Claude's senses. He remained aware of Dean's actions even when he didn't mean to. He knew Dean was leaning against the kitchen counter, knew Dean was watching him place each can into the refrigerator.

"Is this your way of asking me to help you clean your apartment?"

Claude smiled, hoping it wasn't obvious that he was purposely avoiding Dean's gaze. "The dishes do happen to be right beside you."

He knew Dean was pouting. The Head Alpha, pouting. "You haven't even greeted me a Happy Birthday yet."

Claude hummed. "Wait until midnight, so it'll be accurate."

Dean pretended to be put out, trying to hold back his laughter. "You say that every year."

Once the cans of beers inside the box ran out, Claude had to meet Dean's eyes. The werewolf quickly covered his amused expression, feigning sadness. "How can you be so heartless to me, Claude?"

Quite the opposite. "I'll make dinner for us if you help me with the kitchen," Claude said.

Dean was a lightbulb, switching from one look to another without so much as an interval. "Really?"

"How does cream pasta sound?"

That's how Dean and Claude found themselves both bustling away in Claude's kitchen, Dean rinsing off the remaining dishes while Claude boiled noodles. Dean has helped clean-up before, he insisted on doing so even when Claude wouldn't let him. The werewolf's knowledge of where everything went, he didn't even need to ask Claude where he kept the dishwashing soap.

Claude's taking out his wooden cutting board to chop up maitake and shiitake mushrooms when Dean, busy pressing the controls of the dishwasher, asked, "I know you insist that you're feeling better, but answer honestly. Did you get panic attacks again?"

It was easier to talk about this without Dean's intense scrutiny on him. "I had Lottie help me out."

"She's the volleyball captain, right?"

"Mm. She hates What You Missed from the Miar's."

The dishwasher beeped to life. Dean stood with a scoff. "That's ridiculous. Nobody hates the Miar's, they just pretend to. Show her one episode, she'll understand."

Claude smiled, eyes not lifting from where he chopped the mushrooms with practiced ease. "You certainly pretended to at the beginning."

"I refuse to comment on that." Dean waved the retort off. "You want me to clear up the counters too?" He was already placing several dry containers back into their proper cupboards before Claude could answer.

Dean did not only put away the remaining clutter in Claude's kitchen, he also took a rag and started wiping down the countertops with a cleaning spray he got from Claude's storage room, all the while Claude continued to make them dinner.

If anyone could see us now...

It didn't even sink in for Claude how domestic this all was until he was stirring together noodles and cream in his ceramic frying pan. Dean lifted the bowl of fried mushrooms to run a rag on the surface underneath it, his body now close to Claude's.

"That smells good." Claude felt on his ear the breath from Dean's mumbled words.

He'd tell Dean that the heat on his face was from cooking or something if the werewolf happened to notice.

Dean did not notice. In fact, right after Claude turned off the stove, he even went as far as to open his mouth expectantly after Claude took two strands of noodles.

Claude allowed Dean to try the pasta first, feeding him with the tasting fork. This whole dinner was for him, anyway.

Dean made a surprised sound. "If I lived with you, I'd probably turn as round as a ball. Damn, that's good. Not too heavy on the cream."

"Lucky for us both that you don't live here then."

Dean, who initially complained about having to clean, wordlessly set the table for them. The werewolf clearly didn't like Claude doing all the work, not even during his birthday celebration. "You want me to make us something to drink?"

"There's four seasons in the fridge," Claude offered.

"I'll get it." Dean stood to take the juice box, but not before he got glasses from the drawer next to the dishwasher. "Lots of ice in your juice, right?"

Claude pressed his lips together. So very domestic.

Conversation at dinner ranged from little anecdotes about school and the Red Village to asking each other if they think they could survive living on Mars like in the box-office movie they saw together a few months ago. It didn't matter what the topic was, or that they texted each other on an almost everyday basis. Neither Claude nor Dean ran out of things to tell the other person.

Claude cleared their plates before Dean could do it. "Where are the Uno cards?" The werewolf asked, already looking around the living room where he knew the cards would be.

"You want to lose at Uno before your birthday?" 

"I am going to win at Uno before my birthday," Dean took the beer offered to him before giving Claude a thoughtful expression. "Though now that I think about it, I don't mind losing if it's you."

Much like his laundry earlier, Claude shoved away the effects he got from Dean's words into a dark hole. "I find that very hard to believe." Dean might not be a stereotypical, arrogant, self-centered Alpha, but damned if he wasn't competitive.

Dean shrugged. "You don't care if you win or lose."

There was a sort of deflating sensation Claude felt, covered successfully by the game face he put on. "Alright, Axel. Whatever you want."

Turned out what Dean wanted was for them to go through six cans of beers in a span of an hour, both of them taking longer to finish one because every sip went straight to their brains. Claude had just finished his first beer, Dean was on his fifth.

By the third Uno game, Dean was sprawled on the couch with one hand nursing his drink, the other holding up his remaining three cards. "I don't feel old, you know." The last words of his sentence were slurred, the werewolf clearly tipsy. "I'm turning twenty-six tomorrow and I don't feel old. Twenty-six is not old."

Claude was sat on the rug in his living room floor, legs spread out underneath the coffee table. He placed down his card: a red 6 to match Dean's red 2. "No, it is not."

"Right? S'not. But people are pushing me to find a mate. Makes me feel like I'm fifty and about to die alone." Dean lazily extended his arm, throwing down a red 9 and narrowly missing the pile. His aim's getting sloppy.

Claude changed the color, placing a blue number 9 card. He's still got five cards in his hand, nowhere near buzzed though his body's heating up. "You won't die alone. You don't need to find a mate until you feel ready, or just don't find one at all if that's what you'd like."

Dean blew out his mouth, lips trilling. Claude couldn't tell if Dean's head tilted heavily against the cushion because he was annoyed that he didn't have any blue cards, or because he was feeling a little more than just tipsy now. "Talked to Opal the other day about this. At least I know she's on my side." He set down his current can of beer next to the couch. "Isn't it weird that our children don't even exist but already everyone knows they're going to become leaders?"

It was a subject Claude also found himself mooning about whenever he envisioned his turn at being Head Vampire. "I'm afraid tradition is rarely about what's right or fair," Claude thought out loud. "Also, it's your turn."

Dean examined his cards like there weren't only two remaining, brows furrowed and lips curving downwards.

Claude has spent a lot of time looking at Dean's lips, which consequently meant that he knew whether Dean was focusing on a game or thinking deeply about something, something that's making him sad.

"This isn't much of a celebration," Claude whispered, feeling bad all of a sudden. It's terrible—one beer and he's a goner. "Sorry."

Through the drunken gloss over his deep brown eyes, Dean looked at Claude. He licked his lips, then tossed a blue skip card onto the coffee table, not making the effort to land it anywhere near the pile.

"Of course it's a celebration when it's the two of us." Dean smiled. "Uno. I win again."

Claude blinked. "You hesitated before putting that card down."

"You haven't used that plus four since you got it." Dean tossed the remaining card in his hand. "You're not very good at keeping your cards hidden."

"No, no I'm not," Claude sighed. He collected all the cards to shuffle, refusing to show Dean the other advantage cards he refused to use.

Dean's head was propped on top of his knuckles. "Do you plan to go hunting this weekend?"

"Yes," Claude answered, purposely withholding details. "Do you plan to sober up now?"

From his peripheral vision, he saw Dean adjust, suddenly sliding down the length of the sofa until his gaze was on the ceiling. "What if I just stay here tonight?"

Not the first time Dean's considered sleeping over, not even the second time.

Claude stood, leaving the deck on the table and gathering their empty beer cans. "I'll make us both something salty to help absorb most of the alcohol in your system before you drive back." They were already breaking most of their (unspoken) rules.

Dean didn't say anything. 

The instant ramen packets were already open by the time he heard Dean rolling off the couch, the werewolf grunting to his feet.

Dean's only ever been truly drunk in Claude's presence twice, not including tonight. So far, Claude was certain of two things: Dean was a heavyweight drinker, and an affectionate drunk.

He stood closer than Claude expected, reeking of beer with sharp cheekbones that were flushed pink. Heat radiated from Claude's intoxicated best friend, and he could hear the werewolf's heartbeat again.

"Hey," Dean reached out to squeeze Claude's arm. "It does suck that we can't just go to a bar or a restaurant like regular friends. I know you enough to know that's what that apology back there was about."

This really didn't feel like a celebration anymore. "Isn't this too sad to talk about right before your birthday?"

Dean shook his head, eyelids drooping because of the alcohol. His words came out with painful sincerity. "No, I need to say this. This—hiding our friendship from people—it sucks big time. But I know you feel more comfortable this way, and I don't want people sticking their fingers in and twisting this into something else either. I wouldn't trade being friends with you for anything."

Claude was at a loss. How does one react to a speech filled with such loyalty and familiarity?

The usual answer would be to tease Dean, followed with an affirmation. Claude couldn't tease him now though, because it sounded like Dean was reassuring not only Claude, but also himself.

"I don't mind it. You're right, about the not telling people part. It's more comfortable for me this way." Otherwise, there'd be rumors and stories and interview questions and cameras aimed just waiting to catch them together.

(Claude knew that it had nothing to do with them being friends, and everything to do with them being Head Alpha and Head Vampire).

Dean seemed satisfied with Claude's answer. 

They were so close—close enough for Claude to entertain the thought of doing something inconceivably reckless.

"We still have those cupcakes you brought," Claude diverted instead. 

Dean's expression did not shift. Claude feared he might've had a clue what Claude had been thinking about. 

"It's midnight now. You should greet me." The apartment was quiet, and so were their voices.

"Happy Birthday, Dean."

Thirty-three minutes after midnight, Dean has successfully sobered up after two packets of instant ramen and three chocolate cupcakes split between them. "As much as being a werewolf has its benefits, it's also a damn shame having my buzz killed earlier than I'd like."

Claude pushed the glass of water closer to him. "It means you can drive back safely, idiot."

Two minutes until one o'clock, Claude handed over a gift bag containing his present for Dean. "Don't open it here. Once you've safely returned home, you'll text me that you like it even when you don't, alright?"

Dean laughed, bringing Claude in for a firm hug without warning. Their hugs were always short and infrequent, because they never found a reason to wrap their arms around each other for more than a few seconds.

"I had a great time." The sentence was murmured on the space above Claude's ear.

Claude let himself enjoy the warmth that came from Dean, allowing his arms to wound around the werewolf's torso and squeezing. "You should get going."

Dean leaned away but didn't let go completely, arms still loosely wrapped around Claude. Like this, their faces were only inches apart.

For one split second, Claude thought that maybe Dean would—

But the Head Alpha lowered his arms back to his side. "Thank you, Claude, for the gift and for the celebration. I'll see you soon?"

Claude swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding because he didn't trust his voice to not give him away. He chose to watch Dean walk to his car instead of closing the apartment's door. The werewolf waved before he entered the driver's seat. Claude remained in his spot until Dean's car had driven away.

In the emptiness of his apartment, Claude leaned heavily against the locked door behind him.

Stupid. So Stupid of Claude to think that Dean would—

He thumped his head back, groaning. "Stop doing this to yourself, Fernsby."